Nothing To Cry About
by Alexandria M. R
Summary: Sam has no one left to save him. Not even Dean. Set post S10 mid-finale.


**Nothing To Cry About**

It's over.

Sam feels it, feels it in his thin, bruised skin and cold metal against the veins in his wrists and the weight of finality in his bones and aching muscles and the empty, frustrated, blocked feeling in his head of not knowing what to do to fix this. Cas is dead. And god, he didn't even have time to grieve in the past two days. Even right now, he can't think. Not enough to be feeling the familiar burning, pulling, longing ache for his friend, the heavy sadness and loss that's quietly pushing from behind his loaded head and heart, ignored. Forgotten.

Dean glances at him, black eyes crinkling as his lips curl into a little, sickening smile, sharpening the large knife in his hand, metal and metal _chink_-ing back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Sam knows that there's nothing else after this dungeon and the chains and Dean and his black eyes and that knife. He knows this is the end. He knows that Dean's so far gone, so, so far gone, and he knows that he wasn't able to pull him back, knows that this is the last time he'll ever fail Dean. He knows he broke promises he held too much faith in, and it left him with everything crumbled at his ankles.

Cas is gone. Crowley is too. Everyone who could have ever saved him was gone.

Especially Dean.

And he's crying. It's the most indignant and weak and pathetic way to go out, he knows that too. And he tried. He tried not to. But the agony won out, the burden behind his eyes, the pain bubbling up in his throat, choking him. They won.

This life won.

Dean's kneeling in front of him now, and he didn't even notice the sounds of the five footsteps towards him. He looks at him, tilts his head, the colour of his eyes still reflecting his dark, dark soul. But it's the look on his face. That look of false sorrow and shame and regret and love. Love. It was the love that expanded all that ache to his stomach, sickened him more than most.

"I'm so sorry, baby brother," Dean says, his brows soft and pinched in untrue apology, gently smoothing a hand over Sam's head. And the worst thing, though, is that Sam couldn't bring himself to pull away, even when those hands didn't feel like the Dean he knew anymore. No. Instead, he leaned into it, desperate like a lonely, unloved dog, closed eyes and twisted face as the tears fell, wishing and pretending and failing.

Dean smiled, and Sam didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know what he _wanted_ to do with it. Maybe some part of him wanted to punch it off his face. Maybe he wanted to engrave that light curve and those small dimples into his mind, made of soothing memories and silent goodbyes and kind, gentle comfort on rough lines.

God, he ached, and he burned.

After everything they've been through, how was this all there was to the end? Sam sobbed, biting his trembling lip.

"It's okay," Dean says quietly, his tone like white lies and unsure promises on another lonely, worrisome night, their father gone for a week longer than he said, and both of them staring out of the window, waiting, and Dean reassuring him with words he didn't believe himself. "I won't make it hurt."

"Please come back to me," Sam whispers, voice quivering and broken and choked up, shaky chained hands reaching out for him, jerking to a stop just inches from Dean's cheek as the length runs out. He doesn't know what makes him say it. Maybe it's that craving hope in every space inside his body, that maybe Dean will come back if he just begs him to (what else is there left to do?).

Maybe there'll be another miracle.

Dean smiles again. This time, it's sadder, softer, more terrifying.

"I'm still your big brother," he tells him, staring down at his knife, running three of his fingers over the thin edge and watching them bleed over the silver with a dull, remorseful fascination. He looks up at Sam, exhaling out faked regret in a slow breath, slowly, carefully reaches out cold, bloodied fingers and touches his cheek. "I still love you."

Sam closes his wet eyes, feels the devastating clarity settle in his head, and already knows those words means nothing. There are no miracles and hopes left in this place now.

Dean's fingers are still cold against his face, dragging down lightly, and the brush of nails feel like claws and the warmth of sulfuric blood on icy fingers feel like fire on his wet skin. His thumb swipes over the salt and water and grief, and Sam's chest is hollow with dull, empty solace.

"I just want you dead even more."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hey!

What did you all think? Was it a little dark? Did you like it? Let me know in the comments!


End file.
